


to photograph what the eye can't see

by mansgotalimit



Category: Real Person Fiction
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-30
Updated: 2020-08-30
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:07:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26197615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mansgotalimit/pseuds/mansgotalimit
Summary: He hadn’t been able to help himself, not in his post-orgasm haze, chest still heaving and the sensation of Liam’s tongue still fresh on his cock. Liam had looked so fucking pretty, on his knees and blinking up at Noel with those big doe eyes, Noel’s come staining his cheeks and his full pink lips and his long, sweeping lashes, so irrefutably Noel’s that Noel hadn’t been able to stop himself from fumbling for the shitty little disposable camera Liam had picked up on their sightseeing trip and then proceeded to use to take pictures of Bonehead’s bollocks. Liam hadn’t moved an inch, hazy blue eyes following Noel as he’d leant over and reached for the camera, and then moved back again, holding the viewfinder to his eye.Snap.And just like that, the first bad decision was made.
Relationships: Liam Gallagher/Noel Gallagher
Comments: 9
Kudos: 53





	to photograph what the eye can't see

**Author's Note:**

> this fic arose from a conversation i had with [OnTheWrongSideOfTheBed](https://archiveofourown.org/users/OnTheWrongSideOfTheBed/pseuds/OnTheWrongSideOfTheBed) that i could not get out of my head and then wrote and sat on for a while and remembered when i was going through my huge collection of unposted fics so here we are 
> 
> a mansgotalimit production would not be complete without a message of eternal thanks to aforementioned [OnTheWrongSideOfTheBed](https://archiveofourown.org/users/OnTheWrongSideOfTheBed/pseuds/OnTheWrongSideOfTheBed) for reading through this and for entertaining my insane little ideas i owe you more than my life at this point but please don't cash in on it

The whole thing arises from a series of bad decisions. 

And the thing is, Noel doesn’t _do_ bad decisions. Bad decisions usually require either regret, which Noel’s not entirely sure he’s physically capable of, or some sense of shame, which Noel’s entirely sure he _isn’t_ physically capable of. What Noel _is_ physically capable of, though, is losing control, when it comes to Liam.

He hadn’t been able to help himself, not in his post-orgasm haze, chest still heaving and the sensation of Liam’s tongue still fresh on his cock. Liam had looked so fucking pretty, on his knees and blinking up at Noel with those big doe eyes, Noel’s come staining his cheeks and his full pink lips and his long, sweeping lashes, so irrefutably Noel’s that Noel hadn’t been able to stop himself from fumbling for the shitty little disposable camera Liam had picked up on their sightseeing trip and then proceeded to use to take pictures of Bonehead’s bollocks. Liam hadn’t moved an inch, hazy blue eyes following Noel as he’d leant over and reached for the camera, and then moved back again, holding the viewfinder to his eye. 

_Snap._

And just like that, the first bad decision was made. 

Noel’s never had a lot of rules in life, and Liam’s had even fewer, but one line that Noel’s made Liam toe on pain of fucking death is _no evidence._ It’s an obvious one, he thinks - not that it’s stopped Liam pushing his luck sometimes, because the fucker doesn’t seem to realise incest is, y’know, _illegal,_ amongst other things. Noel’s always had to catch him by the arm and pull him firmly back from where he’s been about to put a toe or three over the line, always had to be the sensible one, the one in control, because God knows Liam couldn’t be. 

Except Liam had never taken a picture of Noel covered in his come, had he? 

No, of course he hadn’t, because Noel would’ve fucking skinned him alive. He barely ever lets Liam come on his face anyway, hates how _owned_ it makes him feel, even though he’s fairly sure when he gets opened up for autopsy after his likely untimely death from coke or booze or whatever else he’s forced into his system, he’ll have _Liam_ engraved on his heart. Noel can’t even imagine how fucking ballistic he would have gone if Liam had pulled something like that, if he’d brought indisputable evidence of _them_ into existence. And yet there he was, doing it himself.

The sensible thing to do would have been to destroy the camera. Noel should have just burnt it, should have been content with the knowledge that a photo _had_ existed, if only on some flimsy film inside a cheap camera, but he didn’t. Instead, he took the camera everywhere with him, carried it inside his suitcase for the rest of the UK tour and the first half of the North American leg, where one day, when he needed to get out of the room because Liam was throwing a tantrum about something or other, he took them to a shop and got them developed. 

Bad decision number two.

Noel’s never been a nervous man - never cared enough about anything to be nervous - and after the day it took for the pictures to come back, he vowed never to be nervous again. Fucking miserable, hopping around, unable to eat and constantly needing to piss (why piss? What the fuck is the evolutionary benefit in that?). He knew, he _knew,_ that they were still too fucking small over here, that nobody knew who they were, that no one in LA gave a shit who they were and probably wouldn’t have given a shit if they had known anyway, but it didn’t stop him worrying. Fucking stupid, it was, to take that picture in the first place, and even fucking stupider to get it _developed._

The stupidest decision, though, came when he got the call that his pictures were ready, and nigh on sprinted to the shop to pick them up. 

He hadn’t been able to contain himself until the bus, had to duck into a dark alleyway and riffle through the blurry shots of Bonehead’s ballsack until he’d found it. Liam, all light and shadows, with Noel’s come on his cheekbones and his jaw and his eyebrows and nose and eyelashes and lips, gazing up at the camera - up at _Noel._ God, the fucking sight of him was enough to make Noel’s cock stir, a sharp jolt of arousal coursing through him as he thought _mine, mine, mine._

It had been so heady a feeling, a high he hadn’t been able to come down from, that after he’d handed over all of the pictures of Bonehead’s balls to Liam, he’d folded it up, and stuck it in his wallet. 

Bad decision number three. 

In fairness, it hadn’t been a bad decision for a long, long time. Noel’s had that picture in his wallet for ages, now, folded in that gauze section that’s supposed to be for a picture of his wife or kids, not of his fucking brother covered in his come. It’s good to have when Liam’s not there, or when Liam _is_ there but is being a fucking cunt, good to have when Noel needs a quick jolt of adrenaline and arousal to focus his mind before going on stage, or sometimes just because he wants to see Liam like that, on his knees for Noel and all marked up as his. And it’s never been a problem before, because it’s all folded up and tucked away, and because Noel’s not careless. He doesn’t lose things - at least, not anything that really matters, and what could possibly matter more than a picture that’s his life, his career, and his heart all in one?

Until now. 

He’d left his wallet in his coat, because he hadn’t been expecting to take his coat off, and then he’d got drunker than he’d anticipated he would and had been too hot, had shrugged it off and put it on the back of his chair while laughing at something stupid Bonehead had been saying. It hadn’t even crossed his mind that someone might move it, because who the _fuck_ just touches other people’s possessions like that, whether they’re clearing up after an awards show or not? It must have been somewhere between traipsing up to the stage to collect their fourth award and Noel’s third trip to the toilets to get a few lines up his nose, he thinks, but it doesn’t really matter when it was, because the point is it’s _gone._

He looks around the table wildly, like his coat is going to be nestled neatly amongst the empty bottles and glasses littering it, drops to his knees to see whether maybe it had fallen to the floor and been kicked around his chair somewhere, but it’s not there. It’s not anywhere, and Noel’s stomach drops. 

Fuck. 

No, he thinks, ducking to the floor and looking under his chair again. No, he can’t have lost it. It can’t be _gone._ He must have taken it into the toilets with him, maybe too paranoid from the coke to leave something so dangerous out in the open. 

But when he crashes into the toilets, getting a strange look from the bloke at the urinal - bloke from Radiohead, tall, skinny, black-haired, James or Jimmy or Jonny, Noel doesn’t give a flying fuck - and looks in every stall, every cubicle, under every fucking urinal and around every sink, it’s not there either. 

Shit. _Shit._

Well, it must be out there, then, mustn’t it? There’s only so many places it could have got to, Noel thinks, trying to quell the panic as it rises in his chest, squeezing his lungs, making his way back over to the table. Unless someone’s stolen it, or taken it by accident, or- no, Noel’s not going to entertain those thoughts, not when they make bile rise in his throat and his palms sweat at the idea of being discovered. Because that’d be it, wouldn’t it? That’d be it, for him, for him and Liam, for the band, for everything. One little photo in the wrong hands, and that’d be it. 

“Eeyar, where’s Noel got to?” he hears someone yell across the room as he’s scrabbling around on the floor, squinting through the coke and booze and dim light to try and see whether it’s maybe under Guigsy’s chair. 

“Noel!” It’s Liam doing the yelling, predictably, and he sounds annoyed. “Where is the bastard?” 

“Still by the table,” another voice says - Bonehead - and there’s a few crashes that get closer and closer, meaning Liam’s on his way, possibly with Bonehead in tow. 

“What the fuck are you doing?” Liam asks, and Noel shakes his head, crawling under the table and patting left and right in case he just can’t see the coat, like it’s hiding from him. 

“We’re s’posed to be at that fucking party by now,” Bonehead adds. Noel wants to kill him. Can’t he see there’s a bit of a fucking _crisis_ going on in front of him? 

“Since when’ve you cared about being late?” Noel snaps, letting the panic surging through him burn into hot anger for a moment. “Get fucked, I’ll come when I’ve found my coat.” He crawls out at the other side of the table, where Marcus had been sat, straightens up and looks wildly around the table again, in case his coat’s materialised while he’s been under it. Guigsy’s appeared at Bonehead’s shoulder now, and Noel can see Alan and Tony on their way over, and he wants to fucking scream. He doesn’t need a fucking crowd for this, needs time and space and preferably another drink so if everything goes to shit he’ll be too fucked to care. 

“Why’ve you got your knickers in a twist?” Liam asks, frowning. “‘S just a coat.” Noel throws him a withering look. 

“It’s got my wallet in.” Liam shrugs. 

“So what?” he says, and before Noel has the opportunity to respond, Alan’s arrived, frowning and nodding at Noel. 

“What’s up with you, then?” he asks. 

“Lost his coat,” Bonehead informs Alan. 

“And his fucking marbles,” Liam says derisively, with a dismissive hand gesture. “Cancel your cards, get some new ones. It’s not like you can’t afford to lose the cash. What’s the big fucking deal?” Noel can’t help the burst of hysterical laughter that bubbles out of him at that. 

What’s the big fucking deal? 

Oh, Noel’ll tell Liam what the big fucking deal is. The big fucking deal is that in the wallet in Noel’s coat is a picture of Liam covered in come - and a well-thumbed photo of Liam covered in come, at that. And it’s not going to take a genius to put two and two together and realise what the wallet with all the cards emblazoned with _Mr Noel T D Gallagher_ and a picture of a certain Liam Gallagher covered in _come_ might mean. 

“What?” Liam says, the _one_ fucking time he doesn’t need to be astute. Never knows when to keep his mouth shut, does he? “What’s in your wallet?”

Noel fixes Liam with a glare, skirts around two chairs and grabs him roughly by the collar of his jacket, and drags him over to a wall about ten metres away, well out of earshot of the assorted group of people who have gone from looking either confused or impatient to watching the two of them warily, none of them wanting to be the one who has to jump in and break up the fight they clearly think is about to happen. Liam protests loudly, calling him a cunt and a prick and a cunt again, but doesn’t resist Noel’s pull, lets Noel slam him against the wall and get close to his face. 

“D’you want to know what’s in that fucking wallet?” Noel hisses, tightening his grip on Liam’s collar. “That picture I took of you.” Liam frowns. 

“What picture?” 

“In that hotel room. After you-“ he lowers his voice, even though there’s no way the rest of them can hear him “-after you sucked me off.” Liam’s brow furrows further, and Noel gives it a minute, waits for realisation to dawn on Liam’s face, and then watches as the penny drops, as his eyebrows raise and his eyes widen and his mouth slackens. He lets go of Liam then, takes a step back, and says: “Yeah.” 

“You fucking _idiot,”_ Liam hisses, rubbing at his throat. “You- Christ, you _kept it?”_

“Jesus, I- it was in my _wallet,_ there was no way-“ 

“What the _fuck_ is wrong with you?” Liam demands hotly, raking a hand through his hair. “Jesus, Noel. I’m covered in your _come.”_ Noel grits his teeth. He knows. 

“I fucking know that, Liam,” he snaps. “Are you going to fucking help me find it, or what?” 

“I don’t have much of a fucking choice, do I?” Liam snaps back. “Fucking _hell,_ Noel, are you fucking _insane?”_

“I’ll fucking-” Noel starts angrily, and then cuts himself off, takes a deep breath. “We’ll talk about this later. Find me my fucking coat.” 

“Too right we’ll fucking talk about this later, you cunt,” Liam says, but he follows in Noel’s wake as Noel makes a beeline for the table everyone’s standing around, frowning, watching the brothers suspiciously. 

“Where the fuck’s my fucking coat?” Noel shouts. 

“Wherever the fuck you left it,” Tony says. Noel’s going to fucking skin him alive. 

“Fuck off,” he snaps as they get to the table, and points at the back of his chair. “I left it here. Who took it?” 

“No one took your fucking coat, Noel,” Alan says, sounding somewhere between amused and annoyed. “Just buy yourself another, eh? Let’s get going to the party.” 

“We’re not going fucking anywhere until Noel’s got his fucking coat back,” Liam snaps, and Guigsy throws him a surprised look. 

“Since when do you care about Noel’s coat?” he asks, and Noel grits his teeth, clenches his fists. He’s made them all millions, hasn’t he? Why the fuck can’t they just shut the fuck up and look for his coat for ten minutes? 

“What’s it to you?” Liam shoots back, and Noel’s arm flies out before he’s even thought about it, instincts a step ahead of his drug-and-booze-addled mind. It catches Liam before he can make a lunge for Guigs, and Noel holds him firm, shoves him back and makes him stumble a few steps. 

“The wallet,” he reminds Liam sternly, and Liam glowers at him. 

“That’s _your_ fucking fault,” he says, but he doesn’t try and go for Guigsy again, just spins on his heel and looks at the table.

“Did you leave it in the loo?” Alan suggests, and Noel shakes his head. 

“Have you checked the tables near ours?” Bonehead says, and Noel shakes his head again. “Right, well. Try that, then.” 

“You check that one, I’ll check this one,” Noel instructs, pointing at the table to the right of theirs and making for the one to the left. 

“Hang on a minute-” Bonehead starts indignantly, but Noel throws him a sharp, warning look, and he falls silent, rolls his eyes, and heads to the table Noel had pointed at. 

It’s not under the table to the left of theirs, and the high’s worn off enough for Noel to be certain that it’s definitely not on any of the chairs either, that he’s not hallucinating all of them standing there empty, and when he turns back to the table they’d been sat at that night he finds Bonehead shrugging and shaking his head. 

Fuck. 

“Where else did you go?” Tony says. 

“Nowhere,” Noel snaps. “You were fucking with me all night.” 

“Have you asked in the cloakroom?” Guigsy offers. Shit. The cloakroom. Noel should’ve thought of that. 

“I-” he starts, but he’s interrupted by the door to the hall banging open again, making them all jump.

“What the fuck is the holdup?” someone yells, and Noel’s gaze flits over to the door to see Marcus standing in the doorway, looking irritated. “We’re meant to be at a fucking party by now.”

“Noel’s lost his coat,” Alan shouts back. Marcus holds something up in the air, and Noel squints, just about making out something dark and lumpy in his hand. 

“I’ve got it,” he says, and Noel’s eyes flutter shut for a moment, knees going weak as relief steals over him. “Can we get a _fucking_ move on?” 

“Toss us his coat,” Liam calls, and Marcus rolls his eyes, but takes three long strides in their direction and then lobs the coat in the direction of the assembly gathered around the table. It lands on Bonehead’s shoulder, who picks it off and hands it over to Noel. 

“Let’s get to the fucking party,” he says as Noel shrugs his coat on, and there’s a smattering of murmured agreements. Alan, Bonehead, Guigs and Tony turn and head for the door, talking amongst themselves, and Liam rounds on Noel. There’s a fucking fire in his eyes, something that’s too tinged with lust to be fury, and it makes Noel’s stomach clench with a sharp pang of desire. 

“Hotel,” is all Liam says, and Noel nods curtly, turning on his heel and stalking off in the wake of the others. He doesn’t much care about the party - all these afterparties are always full of Tory cunts, anyway. 

There are two cars waiting for them outside, enough to fit all of them in, but Noel bars Tony from getting in the one that Liam clambers into, silencing him with nothing but a look. Tony falters, frowns, falls back, but there’s something a little too astute in his slightly glassy eyes for Noel’s liking, something a little too shrewd as his eyes dart from Liam to Noel and back again, like he’s trying to make two and two add up to seven because he doesn’t like the number four. That’s not Noel’s problem, though - he doesn’t give a fuck if Tony knows what two and two adds up to, because four sounds a hell of a lot like _get fucked_ if you say it in the right tone of voice - so he just gets in behind Liam, slams the door shut, and sits down, leaving a good metre of space between the two of them. 

They don’t speak on the way back to the hotel. It doesn’t take long, because the roads are fairly empty now, but it still feels like a fucking eternity, just like the metre between Noel and Liam feels like a fucking gulf. Liam’s not usually quiet, doesn’t usually give a fuck whether the driver hears them arguing or not - usually isn’t sober enough to realise there’s anyone but him and Noel there, anyway - but Noel can practically _feel_ the energy rolling off him, can pretty much hear the way he’s vibrating. It sends something electric spiking through Noel’s veins, because he doesn’t know what he’s in for - a fight or a fuck, or maybe one then the other, and God knows in what order. 

Liam doesn’t even speak to him in the lift, when it’s just the two of them in a tight, contained metal space, just stares steadfastly ahead of him at the _WANK_ that’s been scratched into the wall, then stands almost patiently at the side of Noel’s hotel room door while Noel unlocks it, steps aside for him to walk in, follows him and then closes the door and slowly, deliberately locks it behind him. He waits for Noel to walk over to the bed, to place the key down on the bedside table, and then he takes a step towards him, fury burning hot in his eyes. 

“D’you know how fucking close that was?” Liam says, and his voice is _dangerous,_ low and even and thrumming with something that makes Noel’s skin prickle deliciously. This is new, different, nothing like the mindless anger and violence that Liam usually throws at him. This is _real,_ and it’s heady and addictive and makes Noel want to prod at it a little more, see if he can tease a few more flames into Liam’s eyes. 

“Don’t you fucking _dare_ lecture me,” Noel warns, and Liam laughs, incredulous and bitter. 

“You’ve spent _years_ telling me _we can’t hold hands, don’t rest your head on my shoulder,_ all while you’ve been carrying around a picture of me covered in your _come?”_ he says. He takes another step closer, and Noel plants his feet, tilts his chin up. If it’s going that way, he hopes Liam’ll aim for his jaw instead of his eye, because he’s just managed to get rid of his last black eye and he doesn’t want to spend another week in sunglasses. 

“Nobody was going to fucking find it,” Noel says. Liam shakes his head in disbelief, eyes boring into Noel’s. 

“You fucking cunt,” he says evenly. “What’d you keep it for?” Noel blinks. 

“What?”

“What the fuck did you keep it for?” 

“To look at.” 

“Don’t be a cunt.” 

“I’m not.” 

“What the _fuck_ did you-” Liam’s leaning into his anger now, warming up to it, and Noel catches his fists balling at his sides, so he cuts him off. 

“What the fuck do you _think,_ Liam?” he says sharply. “To look at you. To see you all marked up as mine.” Liam stops. 

“Did you wank to it?” he asks bluntly, after a moment. Noel holds his gaze.

“What d’you think?” he asks softly, and relishes the way it makes Liam blink and swallow. The anger’s still there, the fire in his eyes only halfway through its fuel, but the lust that’s been edging it is pooling in the blue, now, thick and syrupy and fucking sweeter than anything Noel’s ever tasted. 

“Tell me,” he says, and then drops to his knees. Noel’s eyes flutter shut for a brief moment, arousal shooting through him as Liam’s deft fingers undo his belt and get his jeans and boxers down. 

So it’s going to be like that, then. 

“Shouldn’t’ve kept it,” Noel says, as Liam takes the head of Noel’s cock in his mouth, flicking his tongue lazily around it. It makes Noel inhale deeply, exhale heavily, focused on the sensation of the heat and the wetness of Liam’s mouth as he sucks gently on the head of Noel’s cock. “Should’ve burnt it.” Liam hums around Noel, blinking up at him, like he’s saying _yeah, you fucking should’ve._ And yet, here he is, Noel’s cock in his mouth, wanting to hear about the photo. He’s never been a particularly good liar. 

“Couldn’t, though,” Noel continues, as Liam works his way further down, tongue wrapping around Noel as far as it’ll go. “I got it developed in LA, d’you remember? Gave you all them pictures you took of Bonehead’s bollocks.” Liam frowns, and pulls off, using his hand in the absence of his mouth. 

“That picture wasn’t with them,” he says, and Noel shakes his head, brings a hand up to stroke across Liam’s jawline, making Liam’s rhythm falter slightly. The room’s still dark, nothing but moonlight and streetlights filtering in through the windows, and it’s making Liam all sharpness and shadows, highlighting the angle of his jaw, so unmistakably masculine and familiar it makes Noel’s cock jump in Liam’s hand. 

“I took it,” Noel says. “Soon as I got out of the shop. Went in an alleyway and looked at it. Couldn’t stop thinking about it, so I put it in my wallet.” Liam raises an eyebrow. 

“Tell me,” he says. 

“Just did.” Liam’s grip on Noel’s cock tightens, just enough for it to be a little painful, and Noel glares down at him. Liam just smiles back sweetly, a silent _you know what I mean_ and a _fuck you_ and a _maybe if you’re lucky._

“Be a good boy and suck me off, then,” Noel says, bringing his thumb up to stroke over Liam’s soft cheekbone, and Liam nods, and takes Noel back in his mouth, working his way down to meet his hand. It’s so fucking hot, not as tight as Liam’s hand but hot and wet and velvet, and Noel inhales sharply, tips his head back and stares at the ceiling for a moment as Liam takes him almost all the way down, other hand coming up to cup his balls, roll them in his palm almost tantalisingly slowly as his tongue flattens on the underside of his cock. 

“I look at it once in a while,” Noel says, to the ceiling, trying not to breathe too heavily. “When you’re not there, mostly. When you’re drunk or high, too. Or when you’re being a cunt. Just to remember that you’re mine.” Liam hums around him again, making Noel hiss and snap his head back down, hand dropping from Liam’s cheekbone to his jaw, cupping it and forcing him upwards slightly. Liam lets himself be moved, blinks up at Noel through his big, dark eyes, like he’s saying _more._ The prick’s never fucking satisfied, is he? 

“Sometimes look at it before I go on stage,” Noel tells him, and Liam inhales sharply, almost spluttering on the breath but recovering just in time. “Look over at you singing in front of all the thousands of people standing there and just think about the fact there’s a picture of you covered in my come in my back pocket.” Liam’s eyes flutter shut at that, and he moans, grip on Noel’s cock loosening. Noel lets the hand on Liam’s cheek slide up to his hair, curls his fingers in the silky strands and tugs, testing to see how far Liam’s gone for him. Liam opens his eyes again, shoots Noel a glare, but Noel can read his slackened shoulders and hooded eyes well enough to know that it means _you can fuck my mouth if you keep talking._

“Love having a picture of you like that,” Noel says, bringing his other hand up to Liam’s hair too and using both to bring Liam down, push him until he’s gagging, eyes watering around Noel’s cock as he chokes. “Love seeing you all marked up as mine.” He pulls Liam back again, holds his head in place and lets his hips thrust forward, fucking into the heat of Liam’s mouth. Liam hollows his cheeks like the good little fuck that he is, makes it all tight and wet and good for his big brother, taking his cock so well. It makes Noel lurch closer to his orgasm, that even now, when Liam’s got every right to be furious, Noel’s the one in control.

“Keep it right there next to my cards,” Noel says, and he’s breathless now, the words coming out between pants. “All those- _shit,_ Liam-” he breaks off as Liam swallows around him, does something truly fucking sinful with his tongue as Noel pulls back and thrusts into his mouth again “-all those cards with my name on, right next to a picture of my brother covered in my come.” Liam moans, and his pupils are so fucking blown now, bigger and darker than Noel thinks he’s ever seen. 

“Fuck, Liam,” Noel gets out, hands sliding around to the back of Liam’s head as he gets closer and closer, fucking into Liam’s mouth and forcing his head down at the same time, groaning as Liam just fucking takes it, just lets himself be manhandled and manoeuvred. “So good, feels so fucking good.” Liam moans again, and blinks up at Noel, eyes streaming with tears and the corners of his mouth streaked with spit and he looks like a piece of fucking art, decorated by Noel himself, only one thing missing. 

“Fuck, I’m gonna-” Noel manages, and just as Liam tries to tighten his grip, tries to hollow his cheeks more and flick his tongue over the slit and lap up Noel’s come, Noel jerks his hips back, pulls his cock out of Liam’s mouth right as he starts coming, getting the first spurt on Liam’s tongue and lips and the second across his left cheek and eye and the third across his forehead and nose and the fourth across his right cheekbone. Liam lets him, closes his eyes and doesn’t move an inch as Noel paints him, and it makes Noel groan, makes him stumble back and lean against the wall to his left as he pants, trying to catch his breath when Liam opens his eyes. 

He stares at Noel for a moment, come and tears and saliva dripping down his face, and Noel just blinks back, can’t bring himself to say _you’re beautiful, you’re beautiful, you’re so fucking beautiful._ How could he _ever_ have burnt that picture, when the Liam in it looks like this? 

“Where’s your wallet?” Liam says. Noel reaches into the right hand pocket of his coat with slightly trembling fingers and tosses it over to Liam, who opens it and pulls the photo of himself out from the gauze compartment. He unfolds it, stares at it for a minute, and then turns it around, holds it up next to his face, and looks at Noel, almost mocking. _Is this what you want?_ he’s trying to say.

“Should start an album,” Noel says, which is the closest he can get to the _I love you_ and the _you’re beautiful_ s that are knocking around in his head. Liam just looks at him for a moment, something unreadable in his eyes, and then tosses the photo and the wallet onto the bed behind him and rocks back on his heels. 

“Get on the bed,” Noel says, pulling up his jeans and re-buckling his belt, and Liam gets to his feet a little unsteadily, throws himself down on the bed on his back and stares up at the ceiling. “Get yourself out, then, kid. ‘M not your fucking slave.” 

“I’ve got your come on my face,” Liam says, a little stroppily, but his voice is too dazed to really hit home, and his fingers are already working at his zip. He lifts his hips to pull his jeans and boxers down, and Noel reaches for the lube on the bedside table on his way to the bed, settling himself between Liam’s legs, already spread for him. 

“Looks fucking pretty, and all,” Noel agrees, which elicits a soft gasp from Liam, turning a little sharp when Noel nudges his legs apart a little further, uncapping the lube and dribbling a decent amount on his fingers. 

“Ready?” he asks, and Liam nods, eyes fluttering shut before Noel’s even got a finger in him, just circling his hole gently, lightly, until Liam groans, pushes back and down, trying to get Noel in him. It makes Noel laugh, but he gives it to him, presses one finger in gently, slowly, putting his other hand on Liam’s hip and holding him in place so he won’t try and wriggle down impatiently. 

“‘M already close,” Liam says, more than a touch petulantly, trying to squirm down anyway, and Noel rolls his eyes, tightening his grip on Liam’s hip. 

“I’m not letting you hurt yourself,” Noel says, and Liam lets out an exasperated sigh but stops twisting in Noel’s grasp. Noel’s finger is fully in, now, and he presses it against Liam a little, against the spot he knows will make Liam’s fingers curl in the sheets and a string of swear words leave his mouth. Sure enough, Liam gasps again, gets out a _fuck, Noel, fuck, shit, oh, fuck, Noel, Noel, Noel,_ and Noel presses a little harder, rubs against it, ducks down to press a few soft kisses to the inside of Liam’s thigh that have his moans turning a little breathy. He feels loose, relaxed, ready for more, so Noel brings a second finger up to his hole, traces around the rim with his fingertip just to make Liam groan and buck his hips up, and then pushes in, feels the tight heat of his baby brother stretching around his fingers. 

“I’m close,” Liam warns breathlessly, and Noel nods, presses another soft kiss to his thigh and brings his hand around from his hip to wrap around Liam’s cock, using the precome he’s clearly been leaking for a good fifteen minutes to lube up his palm as he pushes his fingers deeper inside Liam, as far as he can go. Liam gasps again, breath coming short and shallow like it does when he’s building up to let go, and Noel tightens his grip around Liam’s cock, flicks his thumb over the slit when he gets to the top, presses his fingers against that spot inside Liam again, and then Liam’s panting and keening and saying _Noel, Noely, Noely, I’m gonna-_ and Noel’s saying _go on, kid, come for me, that’s a good boy,_ and Liam moans once, loud and pretty, and then he’s coming all over his stomach and his chest. Noel works him through it, keeps pressing against his prostate as he lets Liam fuck into his fist, only loosening his grip when Liam slumps, falls into the bed and stares up at the ceiling with barely-open eyes. Noel pulls his fingers out then, as gently as he can, presses one last kiss to Liam’s thigh, and then slaps his shin twice, all businesslike. 

“Get in the shower,” he says. “You’re fucking disgusting.” 

\-------

Liam showers first, and then Noel decides he might as well have a quick rinse, and when he gets out, towelling his face as he walks over to his bed, he realises Liam’s sat on it already, dressed only in his pyjama bottoms, staring at something in his hands. 

The photo.

Noel falters, and sits down heavily next to Liam, tossing his towel to one side. Liam doesn’t look up, doesn’t act like he’s even noticed Noel coming back into the room let alone that he’s got the entire right-hand side of his body pressed against the entire left-hand side of Noel’s, now, just keeps staring down at the photo.

“You should burn it,” he says. He’s holding it loosely between his thumb and the knuckle of his forefinger, like it’s some kind of precious object. Noel supposes it is, really. That little piece of glossy paper could ruin the both of them.

“I know.” 

They sit in silence for a few more moments, nothing but the sounds of their steady inhales and exhales between them, so quiet Noel thinks he might even be able to hear Liam’s heartbeat - or is that his own? It’s always been hard to tell the difference. 

Eventually, Liam shifts. He doesn’t inhale or exhale any sharper or heavier, doesn’t say anything else, just holds the photo out for Noel. 

It feels like an eternity passes in the breath it takes for Noel to take the photo, to get it safely back in his hands, staring down at the younger Liam, frozen in time and all Noel’s. He really should burn it. He should’ve burnt the camera, and if not the camera then the film, and if not the film then the photo. He should never have let them get here, to a post-panic haze in an anonymous hotel room in London. 

He won’t, though, and that’s why Liam gave it back. Liam could’ve burnt it himself; he didn’t have to give it back to Noel. And after all, Liam’s the one in the picture, the one with come on his face. Liam’s the one who’ll be in more trouble if that picture ever gets found, if it drops out of Noel’s wallet, if he has the misfortune of happening across someone light-fingered. Noel might, _might_ just be able to get away with an excuse, say that he found it and was trying to salvage Liam’s reputation, or something, but there’s no ambiguity for Liam. 

It makes Noel’s head spin as Liam watches him fold the photo back up, carefully, and put it back in the gauze compartment of his wallet. He doesn’t say anything, but his eyes follow every move, follow Noel’s fingers as they fold and as they slot the photo in and as they close the wallet again. That’s Liam’s life - _both_ their lives, really - in his hands, right there. Liam trusts Noel with his fucking life. 

It’s a silent _I want you,_ and a silent _I trust you,_ and a silent _I’ll risk everything for you,_ but it’s the loudest _I love you_ Noel’s ever heard.

It's not as loud, though, as the _this is forever_ that comes when Liam opens his mouth. 

"When do I get mine, then?" 


End file.
